Under The Surface
by lumiere42
Summary: After her eating disorder nearly kills her, 14-year-old Angelica enters therapy with a kind, knowledgable, oddly effective shrink with unorthodox treatment methods. Too bad he's also a serial killer. Warning for eating-disorder-related and abuse-related content. Not crackfic, also not for little kids.
1. Devour The World

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, I don't own _Hannibal, Rugrats, All Grown Up!_, or anything else copyrighted herein. Homage, no $$$ made.

This is definitely the weirdest doctor's office she's ever been in. She's sure been in enough of them lately to judge: little white shiny places with hideous fluorescent lighting that makes your skin look all mottled and dead. This place doesn't even feel like an office. Aside from the desk, it's more like a library, big and dim and quiet and more books than she's ever seen in one place before. Warm, too, or maybe that's just the effect of the cup of tea in her hands.

She peeks at her watch. Ten minutes into the session. The last shrink would've been jabbering away by now, trying to _encourage you, Angelica, silence is not therapeutic_ - but this guy just _sits_ there in the big black chair across from her, this guy with his hideous clothes and stock-still demeanor, just _waiting_.

"Aren't you gonna ask me anything, Dr. Lecter?" Her voice is raspy. Talking still gives her faint grinding pain in her chest and throat.

"Is that what you need me to do?" The slightest of smiles plays around the corners of his mouth, then disappears.

_Oh brother_. "That's what shrinks do, right?"

"It depends on the situation. I thought perhaps you were still having trouble speaking, after what happened." His accent reminds her of Tommy and Dil's Grandpa Boris, just not as heavy.

"It's not so bad. I mean, for a couple weeks after, I couldn't talk. Mom had to buy me turtlenecks, for the - " she gestures at her throat - "you know, the...scarring? I sure hope that fades, otherwise it's gonna _really_ limit my fashion choices the rest of my life. It doesn't matter right away, since I'm probably not going back to school for the rest of the year after what happened, but for the future..."

"You are quite concerned with how you appear to others, then."

"Of _course_! It's, like, _glaringly_ obvious. How you present yourself is really important. First impressions, so on, so forth." She pauses to finish the tea. She can't figure out what it is, something with a bright flowery taste and a bitter undertone, but it's helping her talk more easily. "You probably wouldn't understand that, though."

"Why should I not?" God, he's so _still_. She wishes he'd lean forward or fidget or something, because it's a little creepy.

"You don't look like you do. I mean, no offense, Doc, but a _plaid_ suit with a pink shirt? And that paisley tie is the worst. You really should watch some _What Not To Wear_."

"Sartorial choices are indeed subjective."

She stares at him, brow furrowed. "Are you making fun of me? Because that's pretty rude for a doctor."

"Not at all. I _am_ curious, however, as to why the turtlenecks concern you more than the state of your health."

"Because what happened doesn't seem _real_, all right?" She thinks about throwing the teacup at him, just to see if _that_ might startle him out of his waiting, prying stillness. She decides to just set it down on the side table instead. It's a pretty cup, delicate and pale, no point in breaking it.

"What did happen?"

"My parents already told you." She remembers that first time here: sitting in the waiting room, listening to her parents telling Dr. Lecter the whole humiliating story so loudly she could hear everything they said. Her dad starting to shout at her mom. Her mom stalking out of the office to pace the waiting room and call one of her business associates to shout at him instead. The car deathly quiet on the way home, silence only broken by her dad's brief comment: _Dr. Lecter says he wants to see you alone from now on, Angelica. You need to actually talk in therapy this time, okay?_

"They told me their version of events. I want to hear yours."

She sighs. It makes her insides twinge. "It's...gross."

"Fortunately, I have a very high tolerance for such things." That faint smile again.

The light in here is turning funny, dimmer and with a strange sparkle about it. Maybe that's just because it's getting darker outside. She tilts her head back against the chair. For some reason, she actually _wants_ to talk about this now. That's weird.

"It was kind of a joke when I was little. 'Hide the cookies from Angelica, she'll eat them all.' I used to make my cousins and their friends steal junk food from their parents and bring it to me. I'd eat everything. My parents never kept any in the house. My mom said it'd make me fat and hyper. She flipped right out when I got old enough to start buying it on my own, took away my allowance a bunch of times. 'You're getting older, you've got to start watching your figure.' One time? She said, "You'd probably devour the world if someone didn't limit you.'

"_Meanwhile_, my cousins and their friends are scarfing down whole bags of chips and stuff. They've always got it around me and I never had the willpower to stay on a diet for long. The - " she waves her hand vaguely in front of her mouth - "you know, _that_ - I read about it someplace last year. I thought, how bad could it be? Just to speed things up. My mom was happy about the weight I lost."

"Your parents never caught you?"

"They're gone a lot. Especially since I got old enough to be left alone at night. Business trips, working late. I didn't do it too much at first."

"What made it change?"

"I don't know...I mean, I always used to eat when I was upset. School's harder lately, it's the last year before high school and how you do is really starting to _count. _There's other stuff too. I'm a candy-striper at the hospital. Volunteering looks good for college apps, you know? But there's, like, some _really sick_ people there sometimes, it's sad. I don't know."

"So, a year of this, and then that afternoon."

"Yeah."

He waits. Damn, she's not going to get out of this one.

"My mom was on a trip. Dad was gonna be really late, like, not get in till 2 a.m. I'd just gotten my allowance back again. I was supposed to meet Susie - Susie Carmichael, she's, I guess, my friend - to study. But my parents were gone and I decided, forget it, I'm doing what _I_ want for once."

Dr. Lecter actually smiles for real when she says that. It's mildly startling. She's feeling relaxed, limp down to her toes and fingertips, so she decides to continue.

"I stopped at the store on the way home. Bought six packages of cookies and a lot of Mountain Dew. The counter guy asked if I was having a party. Went home, thought _why not_? and got a glass of whiskey out of the liquor cabinet too, for starters. Worked on my website some while I was eating - "

"Website. Fashion?"

"Advice and gossip. I write for the school paper, too."

"That is your career ambition?"

"I want to be an investigative journalist."

"Ah. You do rather remind me of another investigative journalist of my acquaintance. Are you familiar with the name Freddie Lounds?"

"_You know Freddie Lounds_?" The surprise jolts her momentarily back upright. "Wow! I _love_ Tattlecrime, that woman's, like, my idol."

"If you make progress in therapy here, perhaps I can arrange a meeting."

"I guess progress means having to finish this story?"

"You are correct."

She sighs and slumps back down in the chair again. "So. I was drunk, I was demolishing the food, it was time to - get rid of it - " She stops, remembering. Oreos and macaroons in frantic alternation, washing it down with warm Mountain Dew straight from the bottle, running down the hall to the bathroom and bringing it all up again in a sour, sugary, grating rush before doing it again, and again, drinking more whiskey, and -

"I was going back and forth. I was standing in the kitchen, and all of a sudden I...started barfing right there. The booze got to me, I guess. Then I felt

something - coming loose - in my throat."

"You tore yourself open inside." Not a question, a statement. She nods.

"There was...a lot of blood. I ran in the bathroom and locked the door. It wasn't stopping."

"I assume you weren't capable of phoning for help in that condition. Who found you?"

"My - " She pauses. Can she actually call them her friends? "Susie was mad I stood her up. She and the kids from the block were walking home - that's my cousin Tommy, Phil and Lil Deville, Chuckie and Kimi Finster. I'll probably talk about them a lot. Anyway, Susie decided to stop by and find out why I didn't show. They peeked in the kitchen window and saw the...mess."

She swallows hard. She hadn't considered the full awfulness of what they must have seen before. Blood and puke and spilled whiskey and cookie wrappers everywhere -

"Tommy knows where the spare house key is hidden. He opened the back door. They tried to open the bathroom and couldn't. Tommy took the hinges off with the screwdriver from the junk drawer, and they got in. Susie propped me up so I could breathe - I heard later I'd sucked blood into my lungs. I could've drowned if she hadn't. Someone called 911, I'm not sure who. I remember somebody screaming, Kimi, I think. I passed out. Woke up in the hospital. The doctors said I tore my esophagus from barfing. They had to do surgery to fix it."

She closes her eyes. A clear memory image: Susie's horrified face peering down at her, shouting her name as she fought to breathe. Being pulled upright, and coughing a big gout of scarlet spatter all over Susie's turquoise jacket. Tears start pricking her eyes.

"My mom was really pissed. It was an important deal and she had to leave early. She says they'll have to have the bathroom carpet replaced, too." Her voice sounds very far away.

So does Dr. Lecter's, when he answers. "Your mother has very wrongheaded priorities."

She doesn't know what to say to that, so she just stays quiet for a while. The light seems very fuzzy now, filled with tiny rainbow spikes.

"You know the worst part?" she finally says. "My...friends...saved my life, and I _hate_ that they did."

"Do you wish to be dead?" What a thing for him to ask so calmly.

"No. I don't like feeling _guilty_ about what they did. I mean, it would've been pretty awful to see all that. I was really mean to them a lot of the time when we were little, sometimes I still am, I guess, and they did - _this_ - for me and I don't know what to do. I owe them, and - I couldn't even be nice to them when they came to see me in the hospital." Her voice wavers. She pauses until she can get it under control. "I always had to be the leader. Always. Even if it meant lying to them, or scaring them or making them do things for me. Then they save my life, and I can't even thank them?"

"You are no more obligated to do so than they were to save your life in the first place."

"Huh?"

"Any decent human being would have done the same for someone in life-threatening distress. Would you say your friends are decent human beings?"

"Yeah."

"Would _you_ have done the same for one of them, if the situation were reversed?"

"Of course."

"Then try to put aside that guilt. Nothing that happened is a matter of your being selfish. I would guess that you are not selfish _enough_. You've spoken a great deal about others' impressions and expectations of you, their wishes for you. There's nothing wrong with wanting to live up to those things, but the opinion mattering most should be your own. Particularly when others' expectations are that superficial or unrealistic."

Clock chimes go off in some distant part of the house. The sound is light and hollow at the same time, like the almost weightless skeletons of birds, she thinks. Why can't people become light and empty enough to fly, be up above everything in cool rushing quiet? She _must_ be tired, because everything is staying hazy.

"Our time is up." Dr. Lecter rises, goes over to the desk, and tears half a page from what looks like a blank sketchbook. The way he moves is fluid, a little unreal, but everything is feeling unreal to her. "The schools here require French or Spanish classes in your grade. Which one are you taking?"

"French. Why?"

He doesn't answer. He just writes something on the paper and folds it up, then comes over and presses it into her hand. "This is your task for next time. Wait until you are home and alone to read it. Consider what it means for you - not only literally, not only in relation to what you told me, but figuratively and for the other areas of your life as well."

She nods, just as the office door opens and her mom comes bustling in.

She remembers just as she's falling asleep that night. She turns the bedside lamp on. Fluffy is asleep on her jacket, but moves away with a little growling meow when nudged.

The note is in a front pocket. Heavy, cream-colored paper, the expensive stuff. She unfolds it.

Dr. Lecter's handwriting is very fine and controlled, the opposite of her own messy scrawl: _Pourquoi ne pas__ devorer le monde?_

She has to consider the French for a second before figuring it out: _Why not__ devour the world?_


	2. Conspicuous Consumption

There's a guy asleep on Dr. Lecter's waiting room couch when she gets there. Maybe _asleep_ is too gentle a word for it. He keeps twitching and murmuring, eyes darting under closed lids, hands and feet paddling vaguely under the quilt over him like he's running - or swimming - away from something.

There's nowhere else to sit, so she stops in the middle of the room, cold hands shoved deep into her coat pockets. The guy's kind of cute, in a scruffy sort of way, unshaven and lots of curly black hair sticking up. Even in sleep, his face looks scared. She wonders if she should wake him. Then she hears the faint click of the inner office door opening.

"Mademoiselle Pickles." Dr. Lecter's voice is very low. He beckons her in, closing the door softly behind them.

The only light in the room is the puddle of deep gold from the desk lamp. The balcony above, and the furniture outside the lamplight, are vague smudges of shadows. There's a cup of tea awaiting her on the side table, tiny curls of steam rising.

She doesn't take her coat off, just folds herself up in the chair and wraps her gloved hands around the teacup. Dr. Lecter doesn't seem to mind her putting her boots on his furniture. At least, if he does, he doesn't say anything. He just takes the chair across from her.

"Why's there a guy sleeping on your couch?" The tea is the same deep amber color and flowery-bitter taste as before. "Another patient?"

"Part of his particular trauma involves major sleep disturbances. He cannot always control when and where he loses consciousness. You will likely encounter him again. I would appreciate your taking care not to wake him."

"Sure." The phrase _billable hours_ whispers in the back of her mind, in her mom's voice, and she smiles. "Are you charging him for the sleep time, or what?"

"No. Merely providing him with a sanctuary until he can drive home safely again." He looks at her keenly. She can see him noting the coat and gloves and knitted hat. "You're cold."

"Yeah. Dr. Baumann says I will be till I - " _ugh_ - "put more weight back on."

"That disturbs you."

"Well, _yeah_. I mean, does she _have _to put it like I'm a farm animal being fattened up for market? Besides - " she gestures down at herself - "this took a while, I mean, it was a _lot_ of hard work. I'm not happy about...undoing the whole project."

"It would be irresponsible not to point out that that project almost killed you."

"I know. I still don't want to change any of it. And I _know_ that doesn't make any sense."

"It doesn't have to."

The tea is warming her from the inside out. It's definitely better than coffee. Drinking lots of that stuff, just to have some energy on the days she didn't eat, hasn't made her like it any more. (Lattes aren't so bad, but the _calories_.)

"They think I might be able to go back to school in March," she says.

"How do you feel about that?"

"Well...I hope not too many people know what happened. Susie's been telling anyone who asks that I had meningitis. Tommy and the others have been keeping quiet, too. At least going back should be less boring than sitting around Uncle Stu and Aunt Didi's place all day."

"They're your supervision?"

She laughs, a little dry laugh with no amusement in it. "Yeah. Between them and Grandpa Lou, there's always at least one adult around. My parents have me stay there while they're working. Also overnight if they're both out of town or late. It's just like it was when I was a little kid, again."

"Does that bother you?"

"Not during the days. I mean, I'm busy - there's the schoolwork they send home to do, and my website, and TV. I hate when whoever's around keeps checking on me at lunch. They want to be sure I'm not throwing it out, or putting it down the sink, or something."

"Have you tried?"

"I can't get away with it! Well, I probably could when Grandpa Lou's around. He's so deaf he wouldn't hear it. He _watches_ close, though. I did try feeding my soup to the dog once, but Spike's about two hundred dog years old and wouldn't touch it. All he ever eats anymore is special oldster kibble. Spike, I mean, not Grandpa Lou."

Dr. Lecter nods. "_Would_ you dispose of the food, if you could get away with it?"

"Probably. I don't really know."

"You said the days aren't bad. What about nights?"

She sighs. "Dinner's awful. I still can't eat much solid stuff, not till Dr. Baumann clears it. The grownups try to be casual, but I can tell they're all sort of watching me eat, you know? And dragging out conversation after, to be sure I don't go off somewhere and...Tommy doesn't talk to me much at all, like, ever anymore. I guess he's still freaked out. Dil's the only one who still acts normal around me. Normal for _him_, I mean."

"Dil?"

"Dylan. My other cousin. He wasn't there with the others the day I almost...I'm glad. He's only nine, and he's kind of a weirdo. Maybe you should be working with _him_. Anyway, if it freaked Tommy out that much, I bet it would've _really_ messed Dil up." She doesn't want to think about that. She finishes the tea and puts the cup back on the table. The _clink_ of cup on saucer is strangely loud.

"Observe. You _are_ capable of concern for others." Dr. Lecter's voice is softer now. She doesn't really want to meet his gaze. She concentrates on her hands, spread out on her knees, the finely woven texture of the gloves. What's that yarn color called? Heather. Flecks and flecks of other colors in it -

"I read your note," she says.

"Your thoughts?"

She smiles, but it doesn't feel happy. "What it makes me think of? It's funny. When I stayed at my aunt and uncle's place, as a kid? It was always, 'Don't let her into the cheese puffs. Keep her away from the cookies. Don't let her eat too much - ' And now? 'Omigod, better make sure Angelica eats.' Either way, I can't win." She rolls her eyes and sinks down into the chair. "It wasn't just food. Toys and stuff, too. I'd always try to grab everything. Those other kids I mentioned, the Finsters and the Devilles? My cousins and I met them because my aunt and uncle used to watch us all at their place when we were little. I tricked them out of their stuff a _lot_ of times."

"You're an only child, correct?"

"Yeah." Anger flares, brief and bright, somewhere in her chest. "God, you're not _another_ one, are you?"

"Another what?" His stillness and calm are so damn _infuriating._

"Another person who figures all only kids are spoiled brats."

"As you know, that stereotype is patently untrue. _However_ - " he pauses slightly, so that she looks up - "there is often a certain dynamic in _dysfunctional_ only-child families. Do you know if your parents wanted, or ever tried to have, another child?"

"When I was three, they thought they were gonna have another baby. But it was a false alarm. My mom seemed kind of depressed about that."

"Are any of your friends only children?"

"No. At first, but then Tommy's family had Dil, and Chuckie got his stepmom and stepsister. The Devilles are twins, and Susie has older brothers and sisters, so I'm the only only kid I know."

"The only example of your type of family, and your parents' sole focus. In the process of which they formed unrealistic expectations. Certain parents in that situation...behave in a very confusing fashion toward their child. One can become, simultaneously, an overindulged treasure and an aggravating disappointment."

She squints at him, through golden desk-lamp-light turning fuzzy. "Anyone ever tell you you talk like an SAT workbook?"

That faint smile. "I've heard similar assessments, yes."

"How do you know all this stuff? You an only child?"

The strangest flicker of - something - passes over Dr. Lecter's face when she says that, some brief emotion she can't place. Then he's still again, watching. "My family configuration is not the issue here. Yours and how you feel about it is."

_Typical shrink answer._ "I don't know. I've never known anything different."

"What you saw was them giving you - only you - all the attention, all the satisfaction of everything a child could want, without showing you that that cannot apply to every situation, and then becoming angry when you didn't understand. Except for food, which they were needlessly strict about. Am I correct?"

The darkness in the office suddenly presses closer, the high space above her feeling full of a weird rustling sound. "No. No, you don't get it. I really _was_ a brat. And greedy. One time? My Uncle Stu - he's a toy inventor - he invented this gadget that made your voice sound different. I sounded just like my mom when I used it. When Grandpa Lou fell asleep, I got on the phone and pretended I was her? I ordered all these toys from the stores she had accounts with. I'd seen her do it lots of times, so why not? Then I called all my friends' parents and told them there was a surprise party for me, come over and bring presents. _Then_..."

She stares down at the carpet, hoping her hanging hair hides the furious blushing she feels creeping up her face. "I called the deli and ordered all this junk. Doughnuts and..._twenty_ flan. Stuff kept arriving all afternoon. When everyone showed up, I was on the living room floor, all these toy boxes piled up, stuffing myself with doughnuts. The other kids were there already, but I wouldn't let them have _any_ of it. See? I really _was_ awful."

"On the contrary. You were a small child, imitating the adults - in a quite clever fashion for a child that young, I must say. That's hardly your fault. The main blame should have fallen on your grandfather, for failing to supervise you properly."

"Grandpa Lou's a nice guy! It's not _his_ fault he falls asleep so easily."

"My client in the waiting room is also, as you say, a 'nice guy', and his sleep issues are not his fault either, but he would not be a good candidate to have sole charge of small children in his current condition. If your grandfather had problems supervising the children, your parents shouldn't have allowed it."

She's never thought about that before. "I guess you're right."

"What happened afterward?"

"My parents sent everyone home and had all the stuff returned. Except the food. The deli wouldn't take it back. My mom sat me down and made me eat all the flan that night."

Dr. Lecter's eyebrows go up at that. "_All_ that flan?"

She shrugs. "It's not so bad, once you get past the halfway point." She actually tastes it on the back of her tongue now, a slightly foul slick of sugar.

"Did you get sick afterward?"

She nods. "My mom was nice after that happened. She put me to bed." Her voice goes up, imitating her mom: "_This should teach you a little life lesson about being greedy, Angelica._ Ha! Guess that didn't turn out like she wanted." The gloves suddenly feel odd on her hands, the texture creepy, and she pulls them off and studies her hands. Still bony and fragile, little hollows standing out in her wrists, good. Her nails are starting to grow out again, now that she's not keeping them really short to keep from cutting the inside of her throat up when...

The carpet. Patterns and patterns and patterns. Her eyes can't stop following them.

Dr. Lecter's voice: "Your mother should _not_ have gone about that lesson that way." A pause, and then: "As if stuffing a child - literally and figuratively - till they are sickened can teach any compassion for those who have nothing. Pathology, maybe, but...you're not the only client I've ever heard variations on that story from. The only _American_ client, I should say. The mainstream culture here does have a certain flair for excess. It's never supposed to be admitted, however - have you ever noticed that? The wealthy are treated as most fully human, but discussing one's income honestly is rude. Such plentiful food and warmth and resources, concentrated in the hands of so few, and everyone else is made to want, made to feel lesser for not having, then shamed for wanting and trying to acquire. I've lived here for decades now, and I will still never fully understand that."

Words slowly coming out of her mouth, thick like syrup: "Where are you from, anyway? Originally, I mean."

"Lithuania. Then France."

"Oh. I figured it had to be someplace in east Europe. You sound kind of like Tommy and Dil's grandparents, and they're from Russia."

"Perceptive."

The distant clock chimes, like tiny versions of church bells. Dr. Lecter rising, briefly interrupting the carpet patterns she can't stop watching. He's pulling another half-page from the sketchbook, writing something. "Do you have your phone? I must ask a favor."

"Sure."

"Call whoever's picking you up tonight, and ask them to meet you outside the main office door. My other client would probably prefer the privacy."

"Okay." She watches her own arm move, dreamily slow, to her coat pocket and retrieve the phone. It only takes a moment to explain to Aunt Didi. As she tucks the phone away again, Dr. Lecter is there beside her, tucking the folded note into her hand and then leading her to the inner door.

The sleeping guy is actually awake, sitting up, staring blankly at the opposite wall. The quilt is hanging loosely around his shoulders. She scoots by fast. God knows she wouldn't want some stranger gawking if she were that out of it. She can hear Aunt Didi's footsteps coming up the stairs as she opens the outer door. Then she can't help her curiosity, and looks back.

Dr. Lecter is sitting on the sofa next to the guy, turned in toward him, a hand on his shoulder. They're talking in low voices, so quiet she can't make out words. It makes her smile.

_He's pretty nice, for a shrink,_ she thinks, then closes the door.

She takes the risk of reading the note in the car. Aunt Didi is preoccupied at a long red light, drumming the steering wheel and humming along with the radio's music, and doesn't notice.

_ Nous devons davantage discuter l'origine de votre consommation notable. Réfléchissez : comment exactement avez-vous appris que vous devez vouloir et encore ne pas vouloir ?_

She has to wait till she's home to figure out the entire thing: _We must further discuss the origin of your conspicuous consumption. Consider: how exactly did you learn that you must want and yet not want?_


	3. Photosynthesis

"Look, Susie, can we just focus on this assignment? I don't really want to talk about this anymore, and it's not like we've got all night to get this done."

She puts as much edge into her voice as she dares. If they were someplace else, she'd do it louder, since neither polite subject-changing nor total refusal have gotten Susie to just _back off_ already. Usually, when this happens, her next step involves using the same voice her mom uses when she's ripping into a business associate - or better yet, the one she uses on her assistant - but there's only so loud you can be in Java Lava before one Finster or another calls you out on it. Besides, she needs Susie's help with this homework.

"I just think you're being too hard on him, is all."

"Too hard on _him?_ What about how hard he's made everything for _me_, Susie? He - "

"Order up!" Mr. Finster waves at them from behind the counter. The cups he's holding up must be theirs. The raincoat-swathed woman in the far corner booth is already eating, in between checking on the blanket-draped baby in the carrier next to her. There's no one else in here right now (except Chuckie and Kimi, busy cleaning an espresso machine and flicking coffee beans at each other when Mr. Finster's not looking).

"'Scuse me." Susie goes over to get the drinks.

The windows are fogged, condensation running down them in streaks. The sleet is still falling outside, intermittent tapping against the glass. It's a lot warmer in here than out there, she knows that, but it doesn't really feel like it. She hasn't even unbuttoned her coat yet. She hates this coat. It's too long and too dated. But today all she cares about is being warm.

Susie slides back into the booth, fumbling with cups and plastic spoons and napkins. "Mocha grande for me - " she hands the other cup across the table - "latte for you." The latte has a thick little peak of whipped cream on it. She _definitely_ hadn't asked for _that_. She thinks about going over and demanding a new one, maybe pointing out that whipped cream doesn't even really qualify as _food_, for God's sake. Except that Mr. Finster would probably tell her parents.

"How much do I owe you?"

"Mr. Finster says it's on the house this time. Because of the lousy weather."

Well, that settles it. She'd feel bad about complaining now.

"Your parents gave your allowance back?"

"Yeah." She starts scraping the cream off the latte, spooning it onto a napkin, carefully avoiding her open notebook with its half-finished photosynthesis cycle diagram. "Why are we studying plant growth in the _winter_, anyway? It's barely March."

"Who knows? Look, about Phil - "

"You mean _Ratfink_ Deville, formerly _known_ as Phil?"

"Angelica, we all know Phil's not exactly the brightest crayon in the box when it comes to common sense."

"No kidding."

"I'm sure he didn't mean to. Look, I know he's a dork a lot of the time, but he's just worried about you, all right?" Susie stares into her cup. "We all are."

_Thanks, Susie, I really need ANOTHER giant serving of guilt to deal with_. "That's another thing. Everybody being _concerned_. I'm doing fine, okay? The doctor even said I can eat real food again, whch is great, because there's only so many smoothies one human being can stand." She smiles, widening her eyes a little for extra sincerity. People believe almost anything if you smile the right way when you say it. "Let's just deal with these diagrams. I have to be you-know-where at 6:30."

"I don't know how you do _that._" Susie starts riffling through the biology book. "I couldn't stand having to talk about my problems with some total stranger. What if they turned out to be a jerk?"

"The last shrink _was _kind of a jerk. Dr. Lecter's okay, though. Besides, it's not like I get a choice."

The baby in the corner starts whimpering, then crying in little hiccuping sobs. The woman digs into her enormous canvas bag and retrieves a bottle. The baby starts crying louder upon seeing it, kicking its booteed feet and grabbing for it.

"Angelica?" Susie's whispering. "You're staring at those people."

"I'm...thinking." The baby quiets immediately once the bottle's in its mouth, clutching it with both hands, focusing all its energy on nursing. "Babies are lucky, you know that?"

"Huh?"

"They get hungry, they cry, someone feeds them, they eat and they're happy. Nobody ever questions it. They don't have to think about it or analyze it or...anything...they can just _do_ it." Susie's looking at her really strangely now. _Subject change needed_. "Did you find the diagram?"

"Yeah. Here. Page 182."

"Thanks."

Dr. Lecter's waiting room really _is_ cold. She knows it's not just her, not when the air here has almost the same sharp tang upon breathing it as the air outside. She hunches up on the couch and waits.

It's longer than usual this time before the office door clicks open. She looks up, then stares. Dr. Lecter's wrapped in a knee-length black coat, not so weird considering the temperature in here. But he's also got a black eye and a split lip and a ring of dark bruises on his neck, and that's _definitely_ strange.

"Angelica. Come in."

She follows him into the office. It's like a cave in here, dark and cold and slightly damp. The only light is the desk lamp and - _hm_ - the flickering orange of a pretty respectable fire going in the fireplace. The chairs have been moved, near the hearth. The side table is there too, with two cups, one full and one nearly empty.

"I apologize for the lack of heat." Dr. Lecter's voice sounds a little raspy. "The furnace stopped working this morning, and tomorrow is the soonest anyone can come for repairs."

"That's okay." The fire's radiant heat on her legs is really nice, better than central heating, actually. She considers the chair, then picks up the cup and saucer and sits down cross-legged on the floor instead. Dr. Lecter lowers himself into the other chair, slowly and stiffly, and leans forward a little.

She looks up at him. "What happened to _you_?"

A beat of silence, then: "There was...an extremely unfortunate incident with a client."

"Wow. Occupational hazard, huh?"

"You could say that. It's not as bad as it looks." His smile has no real humor in it.

"I guess we both had a bad week."

"Returning to school has been difficult?"

"It was okay till my _so-called_ friend Phil opened his big yap. He told some people what I was really out for. Now - " she shrugs - "practically everyone in school knows about my...little problem."

"That troubles you."

"Troubles? Some of my friends don't even want to _talk_ to me anymore. Savannah, Brianna, Darryl, they've all been avoiding me. Harold hasn't, but nothing makes _him_ go away for long."

"He sounds very loyal."

"Yeah, the way a dog is loyal if - you know how you can feed some dogs just once, even something that's not really _food_, and they'll follow you around forever afterward? That's Harold."

"What did you feed him?"

"I meant metaphorically."

"So did I."

She sighs. "He's...had a crush on me since preschool. God only knows _why_."

"Perhaps he doesn't think as little of you as you think of yourself."

She can't think of anything to say to that. "I kind of understand them being freaked out at first, but there's no need to _avoid_ me, you know? And it's not only them. Some of the other kids whisper about it around me. This one guy, in English class? He was making barfing sounds at me when I'd walk in the classroom. At least, till Ms. O'Keats heard him and gave him a week's detention."

"That is inexcusable behavior. I'm pleased your teacher dealt with it."

"Yeah. Except then she kept me after class for this whole long wordy spiel about how she's _concerned_ and she'd been _worried_ about me, and I can come talk to her if I need to." She makes a face, remembering. "I just kept nodding along. I didn't want to be mean. Especially since she's also in charge of the school paper, and I don't want to lose my place there."

"Why does her showing concern disturb you?" Dr. Lecter's looking at her intently enough to make her drop her own gaze.

Suddenly she doesn't want to be still anymore. She stands up, moving carefully to avoid the usual surge of lightheadedness, and starts pacing: behind the chairs, back and forth between them and the desk. "I'm...tired of people fussing over me about it. It's like, can we just _forget_ about it and get _on _with things?"

"The people who care about you cannot simply _forget_ that you nearly died." He's turned in the chair so he can keep watching her. She focuses on the toes of her boots and how the carpet pattern seems to swim past them as she paces.

"I wish they would. I wish _everybody_ would. I'm not even sure I buy that it was really that dangerous."

"I can assure you that it was. I requested copies of your medical records from Dr. Baumann. The damage you did to yourself was genuinely life-threatening."

"I don't think I _care_."

"If you cannot, try to at least allow others the option of doing so. Your friend Phil - did he have any malicious intent?"

"Huh? Oh. Probably not. I mean, when I say he's my friend, I really mean we grew up together and know each other really well because of that. We've fought a lot over the years. He wouldn't deliberately be that mean, though."

"Can you allow room for a thoughtless misstep on his part, as well?"

She sighs. "I'll try."

"Good. Now. Regarding what I left you with at the end of last session - "

"That." She laughs a little. "A _real_ shrink question, Doctor. Why didn't you just say, _Tell me more about your parents, Angelica_?"

Dr. Lecter smiles. "I used to ask clients exactly that. Then someone I respect a great deal told me it was lazy psychiatry. I decided he was right. But, since you brought it up, continue."

"There's not much to tell. They've always been really good to me. Maybe _too_ good. A lot of people have said I'm spoiled. But hey, if my parents had the money and they wanted to spend it on their kid, whose business is it? They were always really encouraging. I got lessons in practically everything growing up, art, ballet, piano - the only thing they never tried was sports, and that's because I still couldn't tell my right foot from my left after a year and a half of dance. Probably the worst thing you could say is they _maybe_ told me I was good at stuff I really wasn't, sometimes." She turns and moves closer to the desk, putting her hand on it and studying how it looks against the wood grain. "What is this, mahogany?"

"It's interesting that you speak of your parents in such terms, when we have already established that they were unrealistic about food and your appearance."

She's shivering a little again. The warmth from the tea is gone already. "Well...I guess. But my mom just had my best interests in mind. I mean, little kids _don't_ need to be eating junk food, and - appearance is important. She didn't _mean_ anything by it." She walks around to the other side of the desk. The soft, high rustling is in the air around her again for a moment, more felt than heard. _What is that? It can't be the ventilation system, not this time._

Silence, except the slight popping of the fire. Then, Dr. Lecter's voice: "Have you noticed that you've been gradually putting more space between us all session? Particularly when we brought up your parents. Once we did that, you went so far as to put an actual, physical barrier in front of yourself."

She stares down at the desk, tilting her head slightly, looking at the things on it. Blotter, jar of pens, file folders. The ever-present black sketchbook. She wonders what the story is with that sketchbook. "You wanna...try to read something...profound into that?"

"I simply wanted you to be aware of it."

Hands enter her visual field suddenly, resting on the desk across from her. Long fingers, the knuckles bruised and split. She looks up at Dr. Lecter's face. His eyes are pale and clear in this light.

"You move really quiet," she says.

"I apologize if I startled you." He seems to be waiting. She's not sure what for. Words are swimming around in her head, she picks one from the blur -

"Photosynthesis."

"What of it?"

"We're...studying it in science. I was wishing people could do that. I'd never have to worry about eating or weight again...since when were there ever...fat plants?"

"Some trees are quite large. And plants must be concerned with both drought and winter."

The clock chimes, and she jumps a little. The sound's coming from in here. Dr. Lecter must have moved it. She turns toward the door.

"Your assignment for next time, Miss Pickles?"

She turns back. "Yes?"

"I don't believe I need to write this down. It's not something for you to ponder, rather, two things for you to do. First: contact your friend Phil, try to come to some kind of truce. Second: the collection of weight-loss-inspiration pictures I'm certain you have. Bring it to our next meeting."

"How'd you know about _that_?"

"So you _do _have one. Most people with your issue do."

She glares at him. "I hate how sneaky you are."

A knock on the waiting room door, and then Uncle Stu's shaggy head poking in. "Angelica? You ready? Jeez, it's freezing in here."

11 p.m., and she still can't sleep. Sleeping hasn't been easy since all this started. Lying still for too long starts hurting her in places she didn't know she had. Dr. Baumann had said it was because her bones didn't have enough padding anymore. In a way, she doesn't mind. It means she's still thin, at least by everyone else's definition.

When she can't take staring at the ceiling anymore, she slides out of bed, moving her legs carefully so as not to disturb Fluffy's sleep. She puts a pillow on the desk chair before sitting down, so it won't hurt her tailbone, and opens up the laptop.

_From_: princess_angel10

_To_: Awesomer_twin

_Subj_: About this week...

_Hey, Phil? Can we talk?_


	4. Pictures of Tantalus

It's strange being at Dr. Lecter's office in the daytime. Just her luck, to have a day off school only to have her parents reschedule this week's session for this afternoon. She'd rather be almost anywhere else, even being dragged along shoe-shopping with Tommy and Dil, which is where Grandpa Lou is taking them while she's here. Even though shoe shopping with her cousins would involve Tommy trying on eighteen different pairs of sneakers looking for the absolute perfect fit, Dil _talking_ to any shoes he was considering about their sport and shoelace preferences, and Grandpa falling asleep on a bench. Probably not a single pair of kitten heels or ballet flats in sight, either.

She leans back on the waiting room sofa. At least nobody had asked about the folder she's carrying on the drive over, though Tommy had kept looking at it kind of strangely. She didn't want to have to explain the contents. It's bad enough she has to show it to Dr. Lecter. Where _is_ he, anyway? She checks her watch: five minutes after the session's start time.

She waits another five minutes, foot tapping impatiently, but the office door stays closed. _He better not have forgotten. _

She opens the office door, cautiously, and slips in.

Something seems really off about the room. It takes a moment for her to realize: the curtains are all pulled aside, allowing cloudy gray light to seep in through the tall windows. Long rectangles of light lie parallel across the patterned rugs and dark furniture. She can see the colors of everything in here much more clearly, and there's a slightly open door in the back wall that she's never noticed before. The air smells faintly of disinfectant and wood smoke and old, stirred-up dust.

"Dr. Lecter?"

Silence.

_I'll give him a little while longer, and then I'm calling Grandpa._

The desk lamp is on, shedding a pool of yellow light. She pulls out the chair, with a slight clatter that seems loud in the quiet, and sits down. Polished wood, jar of pens, blotter - and on the desktop's right side, the sketchbook.

She looks around quickly - silence, emptiness - then slides it over in front of her and opens it.

The drawings inside are in pencil, lines delicate and intricate, everything very detailed. They start with buildings: a long, low, many-windowed and turreted building surrounded by trees; a vine-smothered cathedral with broken windows and a crumbling steeple. Her eyebrows go up. She doesn't know much about art, but she knows enough to say that, if Dr. Lecter drew these, he's _seriously_ talented.

She pages past a few more drawings of places: boats in a harbor, an overgrown graveyard. The next one is a person, a little girl of about five, standing waist-deep in meadow grass and flowers. She's looking up at the sky with big eyes and a round-cheeked grin. There's a name in the bottom corner: _Mischa_.

The next page: an older, dark-haired girl, almost grown-up, wearing camouflage and a bright red scarf around her neck. She's standing in a forest clearing, one hand on the head of an antlered deer and the other holding a gun, and - _yargh_ - a dead fawn at her feet. There's a name here, too, _Abigail_.

She recognizes the man in the drawing after that. It's the Couch Sleeper Guy. He's sitting at Dr. Lecter's desk, right where she is now, his hair and clothes a rumpled mess and his face shadowed and downcast. He has wings here, half-unfolded behind him, and his open hands have dark stains on them. The label of this one is down the right margin: _Will - Ange d'Mort_.

_He's calling a patient "Angel of Death"? Okay, this is...kinda weird._ She turns the page, glances, then stares.

It's a girl in rags, standing knee-deep in a woodland pond. There's an apple tree and an orange tree on the shore on either side of her, fruit-heavy branches leaning low over the water. The girl's arms are stretched out, her head tilted back with a frantic, pleading look on her face, her hands _just _falling short of the fruit. Every bone in her arms and shoulders is visible, her fingers like sticks, her eyes huge and hollow and her cheekbones too prominent.

Dr. Lecter has labeled this one, too: _Angelica - Tantalus_.

She goes completely still, her mouth open, staring at this girl who's most definitely _not _her, she _can't_ be, and then the faintest stirring in the air before a hand falls on her shoulder.

She jumps, cries out, and whirls around in the chair. It's Dr. Lecter, very still, his black suit making him look mostly shadowy. She can see his face clearly, though, his brow furrowed and his mouth set in a hard line.

"Mademoiselle Pickles." His voice is flat and stern. "What are you doing?"

She blinks, heart pounding, head light. "I - um - "

"That book _is_ my personal property."

"_Yeah?_" She stands up, head swimming briefly. "Well, uh, how come you're leaving it where patients can get hold of it, anyway? Maybe I just needed some notepaper, ever think of that? And what - " she grabs the book, still open to the not-her drawing, and shakes it at him - "what the hell _is_ this? Why would you ever draw me like _this_? I don't look like that!"

Dr. Lecter takes a deep breath, looks down at the drawing, and shakes his head, just a little. His reply is very soft. "But you _do_ look like that, Angelica."

"No, I don't! Whaddaya think I am, stupid?"

"A distorted image of one's own appearance is almost a given for people with your particular issue - "

"_Stop_!" She slams the book down on the desk and shoves past him, walking around to the desk's other side. "Just _stop_ with the goddamn shrink talk and quit _lying_ to me!"

"I have no reason to lie to you, Angelica." Dr. Lecter puts his hands on the desk and leans forward. "I never intended for anyone to see those drawings. Therefore, why would I draw you with that appearance, unless it was accurate?"

She sighs and looks down at the carpet. "Are you mad at me?"

"If I didn't wish others to see that book, I should have put it away. If not you, it would have been too much of a temptation to some other client, eventually." He puts the sketchbook in the center desk drawer, then walks past her to take his usual chair. "I am, regrettably, out of tea."

"That's okay."

"Come. Sit down. You have seen my collection of pictures. I believe you have your own collection to show me. There are, however, a few items requiring discussion first."

She folds herself up in the other chair, shoes on the upholstery again, folder in her lap. "What?"

"I finished reviewing your medical records. Have you seen them?"

"No. My parents wouldn't let me. They thought it might be too upsetting, or something."

"You should be aware of the details." Dr. Lecter folds his hands in his lap and looks at her, gaze level and calm. "In addition to the esophageal rupture and subsquesent lung damage, you had an irregular heartbeat, severely unbalanced electrolytes, anemia and several other vitamin deficiencies, the beginnings of osteoporosis, and an ulcerated esophagus and stomach. Some of those symptoms improved immediately after you entered hospital treatment; some will take more time to resolve. While it's not Dr. Baumann's field, she noted you almost certainly have dental damage as well."

"Yeah. They said I'll need at least two root canals, once they decide I'm _healthy_ enough for it. They don't wanna give me sedation right now."

"Going under heavy sedation or any type of anesthesia would be dangerous for someone of your low weight."

"That's in the records, right? My weight? Any chance you'll tell me what it is now?"

"Absolutely none."

"_Damn_."

Dr. Lecter smiles, faintly. "There are ways you can find out if you are sufficiently determined, but I strongly recommend you not try."

She thinks of the tape measure hidden behind her desk. Her parents took her scale away, but maybe she doesn't need it as long as she can keep measuring, to see if she's growing _out_ too much. "I guess not."

"Dr. Baumann gave you an official ED-NOS diagnosis, which I agree with."

"ED-NOS?"

"It stands for 'Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified'. Meaning that you have an eating disorder, but it doesn't meet the exact specifications for either anorexia or bulimia. That is _not_, by the way, an invitation to _try_ qualifying for one or the other."

She nods.

"The other issue: Dr. Baumann's office misunderstood my request. Instead of sending only the records relevant to your recent troubles, they sent everything. She's been your physician since you were three. You had two pediatricians before that. Their records were transferred to Dr. Baumann's files years ago. When studying them, I found something odd."

"Yeah?"

"Both your original pediatricians noted that you were underweight for a child of your age. You were low on the height chart as well. You didn't reach the normal height and weight range until well into your third year. The records don't say why. Do you know? Did you have any eating or digestive problems?"

"Not that I know of. Why would it matter?"

"Childhood experiences with food and eating can shape one's later attitudes. If you had a medical problem and began associating eating with being sick, it might have affected you."

"No. I'm sure I'd remember. I can ask my family, if you want." She smiles widely and sneaks a peek at her watch. Maybe she can stall long enough that they won't get to...

"Good. Now. Regarding that folder." Dr. Lecter leans forward.

_Oh well_. She sighs and hands him the folder.

"I assume these are pictures you have collected to...further encourage your own weight loss." It's a three-prong folder. She'd punched holes in the pictures to clip them in. He opens it and starts leafing through, slowly.

"The people on the Internet call it thinspiration."

"Hm. That word is an amusing portmanteau. Its effects, of course, not so amusing. You obtained most of these from fashion magazines, I take it. Are you aware of the ludicrous amount of alteration done on most magazine photos?"

"Everybody says that."

"Everything from hair to skin tone to - especially - body shape is often changed significantly from the original. Your particular collection appears riddled with such falsities. Observe." He holds the open folder up. It's the picture of the woman in the red bikini, reclining on a ship's deck. "For her waist to be that narrow, she would have to be missing some ribs. Her hips are shrunken smaller than her head, which is a biological impossibility."

She stares. She _really_ hates admitting this, but he's right. "I guess."

"There are only two or three possibly realistic pictures here - the gymnasts. _They_ may actually look like that. Of course, they quite literally devote their lives to strenuous exercise, and gymnastics is a sport with a very high eating disorder rate."

"Really?"

"Unfortunately." Dr. Lecter's reached the last page. "Now, this - _this_ is a very interesting image for you to choose." He detaches it from the folder and holds it up. It's the girl with long blond hair and big blue eyes, the girl she could look like if she just tried hard enough, lying on a banquet table in a gauzy white dress. There's a big wicker horn above her head, with baguettes and cucumbers and corn positioned around her like they've spilled out of it.

"That's my favorite."

"Because she resembles you somewhat?"

She's blushing now. "Yeah. And the food is kind of cool, I thought."

"The photographer may have found it ironic to surround a clearly underweight model with an entire spilt cornucopia. Whoever thought of this arrangement also seems to have been in an especially Freudian frame of mind."

"What's Freudian?"

Dr. Lecter starts to say something, then stops. "Psychiatry in-joke. Never mind, I doubt it's relevant to your situation. What you should know is that it's impossible for you, or anyone, to ever really look like any of these pictures and still be healthy and whole."

"I'm _whole_! What, I'm not a complete person just because - "

"I meant that in another sense. Your physical self has been broken to a certain extent, but your spirit has been broken as well."

"Nothing's _breaking_ me except _looking like this_! Don't you _get_ that?"

Dr. Lecter puts the pictures aside and stands. "Come with me." He extends a hand, and she takes it, dubiously. He leads her across the room, to the back wall.

There's a mirror here, mounted next to that door. Dr. Lecter maneuvers her in front of it and stands behind her. It's long enough to show their reflections down to her waist. She looks away.

Dr. Lecter's hands settle lightly on her shoulders. "Look, and tell me: what do you see?"

She looks up, into the glass. Dr. Lecter fades into the background in his dark clothes, but she can see his face above her head and the pale blurs of his hands on her. And herself -

"What do I _see_?" Her voice wavers. _Don't let me cry_. "I'm still too fat, I don't care what anyone says. My face is puffy, and - and I'm blowing up like a whale. Also my skin is bad and my hair needs work." She glares at his reflection. "What do _you_ see, huh?"

His hands tighten slightly on her shoulders. His voice, low: "I see a lovely young girl who is also very ill."

"So I'm nuts?"

"_You_ are not irrational. Your perception of yourself is. That's what we're here to work on."

Clock chimes. _Thank God_.

Dr. Lecter goes back over to the chairs, and she follows and sits back down. He takes her folder and goes over to the desk, back turned. The sound of paper tearing.

"I will keep these pictures for now." She can see that he's writing something. "There is nothing stopping you from collecting more, of course. If you do, I hope you consider what we discussed in the process." He comes back over and hands her another folded note.

"What's Tantalus? It was on my picture."

"It's a Greek myth. Tantalus killed his young son, made him into stew, and served him to the gods. The gods punished him by condemning him to stand in that pool, with those trees near. Every time he tried to eat or drink, the water and the trees would shrink just out of reach. He was doomed to starve in the midst of plenty for all eternity."

"Oh." She's not sure that explains anything. "One more thing. Do you always draw your patients?"

Dr. Lecter smiles. "Only the ones I find most interesting."

She heads out into the waiting room, closing the office door behind her. She pauses at the top of the stairs, thinking to read the note. Then a moving blur smacks into her and bumps her against the wall.

"_Hey!_" She just manages to grab the railing, and looks up. It's the Couch Sleeper Guy, swathed in a heavy green jacket, face pale and panicked. He reaches out a gloved hand, then drops it back to his side.

"Is..Dr. Lecter here?" His voice is shaky and his eyes keep darting around.

"Yeah. Hey, are you okay?"

He doesn't seem to hear her. He stumbles through the door and across the waiting room. She watches long enough to see him enter the office. Dr. Lecter's voice, slightly startled: "Will?"

She puts the note away and descends the stairs, carefully. _At least I'm having a better day than __him__._

Back at Uncle Stu and Aunt Didi's house, she waits till Grandpa is napping and Tommy and Dil are messing around in the kitchen, then closes herself in the downstairs bathroom. She stares in the mirror. No. She still doesn't see it. Not only does she still look awful, the longer she looks, the more unreal her own image seems.

She's so absorbed that she doesn't notice the door opening. "Oh! Um, sorry." It's Tommy. He turns to leave.

"Hey, Tommy? Can I ask you something?"

He turns back, one hand still on the doorknob. "You're not gonna clobber me, are you?" He looks scared. It makes her stomach hurt.

"No. I think I've given up clobbering people." She sits down on the closed toilet lid. "Tell me, really. _Do_ I look fat?"

Tommy leans against the door frame. He stares down at his feet, in their bright new sneakers. "No. No, you don't. You never have." His voice starts shaking. "You know what you look like? You look really sick. I didn't _really _come in here by accident. You were in here for so long, I thought you might be puking your guts out again - I might find you all covered in blood again and - "

"_Tommy_." The lump in her throat is making her voice sound strange. "I...didn't know all that upset you that much."

"Well, it did! It still does! What do you take me for? I mean, we haven't always gotten along, I know we've always fought - a lot - but I never wished you'd _die_!" He smiles, but it looks pained. "Well, maybe that time you held my hand in the anthill. That was pretty rotten."

"It was." She forces herself to meet his gaze. "Look. You...saved my life. You were the one who realized I was hurt in the first place and broke into that bathroom. I never thanked you."

"S' okay."

"No, I mean it."

Tommy shrugs. "Dil's making popcorn. There's a vampire movie marathon on. You wanna come?"

"Sure."

Dil's voice, from down the hallway: "Tommy! I think it's on fire!"

"Did you take the plastic wrap off?"

"Plastic wrap? Uh-oh."

"I better go help." Tommy gives her a quick thumbs-up and runs back down the hall.

She stops in the hallway and opens Dr. Lecter's note. The picture of the woman on the table is folded inside it.

_Vous et elle êtes tous les deux Tantalus, mais votre nourriture est à portée de la main. À cause de cela, je le rends, avec la prudence: essayez de vous concentrer sur la corne d'abondance, plutôt que le vide._

It takes a little effort, but she figures it out: _You and she are both Tantalus, but your nourishment is within reach. Because of that, I return this, with the caution: try to concentrate on the cornucopia, rather than the emptiness. _

"Weird," she whispers.

Later, though, sprawled on the living room floor, Tommy and Dil laughing on either side of her as the movie unfolds, she makes herself eat a few handfuls of popcorn.


End file.
